


A Fowl Reawakening

by Silcrow



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, I bullshit my way through Young Justice, I take over Dick Grayson's body, Kind of meta, Self-Insert, things get crazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silcrow/pseuds/Silcrow
Summary: Sure, being able to do a quadruple backflip is cool, but having actual superpowers would've been better. This is the story of how I find myself seemingly "re-born" into the body of the world's most famous sidekick. Boy, do I regret not reading more comics as a kid now. But hey, at least I'm familiar with the cartoons. Life's all about the silver linings, right? A Robin Self-Insert.





	1. Eyes Wide Open

**Author's Note:**

> ■ Author's Notes:
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone! Let 2019 be kind to us all!
> 
> I've wanted to do a Self-Insert type of story for a while now. Thought about making an OC, but then realized I could have some more fun taking over a canon character. The style is probably a bit different then the typical story, but I wanted to experiment with something I thought could be kind of fun. So here goes nothing!
> 
> WARNING: Rated T for crude humor, mention of drug/alcohol use, moderate language, and violence. Rating is subject to change later on.

◤◥  
**1**  
◣◢

**EYES WIDE OPEN**  
━━━━━━━━━━━━  
━━━━━━━━━━━━

People around me are screaming.

My heart is pounding.

The earth feels like it's spinning beneath me.

And  _god_  does my head hurt!

Wait, am I lying on the ground?

Okay, note-to-self: no more drinking. If this is supposed to be my sign from above to finally stop, then I got it.  _Loud and clear_.

Binging on alcohol is not the way to solve life's problems. Find a new coping mechanism. Consider it added to the to-do list.

_Wow_ , do I feel like crap. Like, really,  _really_  bad. I mean, there is absolutely nothing pleasant about this experience right now. It's as if all my organs have liquefied and are now trying to seep out through my pores. I wonder if that's a real thing, like some kind of degenerative disease? I should check Google, but knowing  _WebMD_ , it'll probably just tell me I have some heinous form of cancer with only hours left to live – which in all honesty, it kind of feels that way right now.

Welp. This is going to be one hell of a hangover to get through, that's for sure. Ugh, can someone get me a V8 or a Gatorade? The blue kind, specifically. Please and thanks.

My tongue presses flat up against the roof of my mouth and I groan. It's like a wad of cotton balls have been shoved down my throat. The more I think about it, the quicker I realize that I can't swallow and suddenly start to gag.

All right, no need to panic, Me. It's all okay. Just calm down. Do some of those breathing techniques. How did that yoga teacher explain it? Oh, right! Breathe in deep through the nose. Hold for a few seconds… Aaaaannnd out through the mouth with a sigh.

Repeat. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth.

Okay, that wasn't too bad. I'm already feeling a little better and I think my heart rate is going down. Good job, Me. Maybe those yogis are actually onto something with all this deep-breathing-relaxation-mantra-third-eye stuff that they can't stop talking about. Should I try taking another yoga class? Eh, that's a question for another time.

Now it's time to get that drink, 'cause I am  _parched._

Let's just sit up and  _—_ _OW_! Ow, ow, ow!

NOPE! Definitely not doing that right now!  _Jesus_ , what the hell is wrong with me? Just the smallest movement, the tiniest contraction of muscles, and it feels like my atoms are being ripped apart. Did I fall off a table? Or maybe a cliff? Ugh, well whatever the case, moving is a no-go right now.

Oh, man. All the good that did was make me feel even more nauseous. I think I'm going to puke.

_Uhh…_

_Ughh…_

_Hic!_

Nope, false alarm, everyone! Phew. That would have totally sucked.

But, damn, I must've drunk a whole bar dry. Like seriously, I've never felt like this before. I'll just take a few more deep breaths and calm the stomach a little bit.

I wonder if there's any bread I can eat.

Aw.  _Bread_. Now I'm hungry.

I'm also realizing that it's completely dark out not because it's nighttime or that the lights are out, but because my eyes are still shut. I don't remember falling asleep, though?

Crap. That means I really must've blacked out and am probably passed out on some random bench somewhere. Why do I always have to do things like this? Damn these self-destructive tendencies of mine!

I take another deep breath and can feel that my senses are becoming clearer and more defined with each passing moment. I can tell that my arms are stretched out beside my body and that my legs are sprawled about in an uncomfortable – and what I can only assume to be a rather unflattering – position. I flex my hands and my fingers brush over what feels like a dirt floor. Odd. I certainly don't remember going outside.

Well, no need to worry just yet. All I need to do is think back and figure out where I am. I'm sure that my brain is just a bit fogged over, that's all. Totally in the ordinary.

Let's see, the last thing I remember is...

Is...

Um…

Oh, no.

Why can't I remember anything?

All right, Me. Just stop, clear your head, and  _think_. Slow down your thoughts and string this out piece by piece. No biggie.

The last thing I did was…

...I went...

...I was at...

...With a person...

...Doing that thing...

Shit.

This isn't good.

Okay, maybe I should start to worry.

No! Wait. Follow the advice of the wise Douglas Adams and  _don't_   _panic_. There's probably some logical, reasonable, totally fine reason why this is.

Like, maybe I have a concussion? Well, no, that's actually something I'd want to be concerned about, so… Maybe I had the wind knocked out of me, and am just a little bit out of it. Yeah, that's probably it. I just need to take things easy for a few more minutes. Everything will come back to me in no time, I'm sure.

Maybe things would go a bit better if I actually could see where I was. So I'll start with conquering that task.

Slowly, my eyelids peel open and I find myself staring up at the ceiling. It's tall and round, painted in thick red and white stripes. Real ugly looking if you ask me. I blink a few times to allow my vision to focus. It's not too brightly lit in here, which is good. Bright lights never mix well with a hangover.

My vision comes into focus and  _—_ Hold up.

Am I in a tent? That's not a ceiling, it's a big canopy. And there's a slight breeze, just cool enough to prickle my skin. And I'm pretty sure there are several pebbles digging into my kidneys right now.

Okay, so I'm definitely not inside a real building. Is this like an outdoor wedding or something?

Gosh, this is so strange.

And my  _god_ , why are there still people shouting like it's the end of the world? That's definitely not helping with the migraine!

Okay, time to sit up and finally get an idea what's going on.

Take it slow, Me. Don't need to feel like my body's being torn apart molecule by molecule again. Once was enough for me, thank you very much.

I hesitantly bring my arms in close and then use my elbows to steadily push off the floor until my upper-half is vertical. My vision goes in-and-out of focus for a few seconds and it feels as if a gallon of ooze is draining out of my head, just like after having a bad head cold. Also, everything stings, and I think my stomach has turned inside out, but at least I'm sitting up now.

It's all about taking baby steps.

God, I really need an aspirin right now. Or better yet, just hook me up to a morphine drip. That'd be nice.

As my eyes adjust, around me I see dozens of people scrambling about in total panic. There are people of all ages, and because there are quite a fair number of children, I'm going to say that I'm not in a bar anymore. I see one man grab the hand of his wife as he clutches onto the body of his young daughter and runs to the side of the tent, trying his best to get out. He doesn't care that he pushes another lady onto the floor in his haste – he's too determined to leave this very instant.

His eyes are full of fear.

In fact, now that I notice, I see that everyone around me looks absolutely terrified. Some are even crying, others cursing. All are running.

Well, that's not good. Probably means I should get moving, too. I think I hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

I sigh. What unfathomable disaster have I gotten myself into this time?

Painstakingly, I bring myself to stand. It takes me a moment to gain my balance so I use a large wooden crate near me as a crutch. The world shakes and spins for a moment, and my arms and legs are engrossed by the sensation of pins and needles. That's always unpleasant. But as I take a few more deep breaths, things settle down. The numbness fades from my limbs and I wiggle my fingers and toes for good measure.

Then I notice that there's a hot, throbbing sensation coming from the back of my head. I tenderly reach back to feel the area with my fingers. I wince sharply when I touch something wet and sticky.

Random thought, but I don't remember my hair being this short?

I bring my hand back and see red color my fingers. Dark and viscous.

Yep, that's blood all right.

Great. I probably  _do_  have a concussion.

I glance down at where I had just been lying and see a jagged looking stone on the ground. There's a dark red stain on its surface. I swallow thickly.

Had I hit my head on  _that_? Shit, that's not good. I should probably get someone to check this out if that's the case.

Now, how do I get out of here?

The one obvious doorway I can see is jammed-packed with frenzied bodies. And seeing how I'd rather not get trampled on today, I think I'll find another way. There has to be more than one exit – fire hazards and all. I begin to blunder forward.

Call me stupid, but instead of following everyone else who is trying to make a break for it out of the tent, I stumble toward the center of the mayhem. I realize this is probably the wrong thing to do - people running and screaming, sirens in the distance. Hell, for all I know, this could be ground zero for the zombie apocalypse!

But the more I move, the more there's something in my gut telling me to go this way. That I need to see what's happened myself. It's important for me to do so.

Vital, in fact.

Maybe I'll remember what the hell is going on if I do.

"Don't go over there, kid!" I hear someone shout over the chaos. I look over my shoulders to try and identify who they're talking too. It's still too crowded and people are running about. Probably some parent separated from their kid.

I continue to push my way through the throng of people to see what the commotion is. It's safe to say that I'm going against all common sense right now, walking in the opposite direction of a running crowd, but I want to know what the hubbub is about.

It's an eerie situation, sue me for being curious.

I hear what I think is the same voice from before, rise above the turmoil. He sounds very distraught. "Dick! Stay back! Don't look!"

I can't help but shake my head a little. Who still has a name like Dick, nowadays? Like, do yourself a favor and change it to something else, buddy. Save yourself the embarrassment.

I see a clearing in the room and I squeeze myself through the final layer of the frenzied crowd with relative ease. I step into the open and find myself standing in the center of the tent. I'm on a makeshift stage that has an odd-looking, artsy centerpiece.

My eyes scan around the area. There's seating all around, and I feel like I'm in a small arena.

All right, what's the big deal is? Where's the fire? I'm not seeing anything _—_

_Oh_.

Oh, dear god!

Jesus fuck!

Okay. I get why everyone is running and screaming.

It's right there in front of me, just a few feet away on the stage. My inattentive mind hadn't registered what it is properly. It probably didn't want to.

Because that's no art piece...

Yeah, I think I might actually puke now.

I count five bodies in total; all unmoving and all most certainly dead. They've somehow piled on top of one another in an extremely clumsy formation  _—_  a grotesque human knot sculpture. If I'm right, there are three males and two females. I can see that they are all wearing matching uniforms: black bottoms with red tunics embroidered with large golden wings.

Their limbs are mangled and bent in ways that make my spine shiver and throat clench up. One of them is petrified with an expression of pure terror and pain.

For such a gruesome sight, there's very little blood to be seen.

Before I can think anything else, my body reacts on its own, bends over, and retches.

I cough up several times, and when I think there's nothing left in my stomach, I use the back of my arm to wipe my mouth. My tongue tastes sour and acidic. My stomach burns.

I take several deep breaths to help calm down and promptly step back to distance myself from... from  _that._

My head tilts up as I try to turn my line of vision elsewhere. I think I see something and my eyes squint slightly. It looks like there are two ropes dangling loosely from the ceiling, with a wooden bar attached to both ends. I then take notice of the two tall wooden poles on both sides of the stage. There are platforms large enough to stand on at the top of both.

Wait. Big, round, striped tent; people in colorful uniforms; a stage surrounded by bleacher seating…

I'm at the circus!

My eyebrows scrunch together in thought. Now, why would I be at the circus? Hell, I didn't even think they existed anymore  _—_ especially with all the recent crackdowns on animal abuse and human rights not being met. Didn't Ringling just get shut down a few months ago? Maybe this is like Cirque du Soleil and they have a vintage theme for the show.

Gosh, I would really like to think that I'd remember going to the damn circus of all places.

My eyes can't help but drift back down to the corpses on the floor. I know I shouldn't look, but I can't help myself. I'm going to safely guess that they are (were?) performers. Acrobats, most likely. And if that broken rope dangling above is any indication of what happened...

Well, it's not hard to guess what had transpired here tonight.

I frown. Aren't aerialists supposed to use safety nets just for this kind of reason? That should be a basic circus law! That is, if circuses even have laws to abide by... A circus union, perhaps?

Oh, man. Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man! This is just, well, I don't even have the words to describe what this is. A tragedy? Devastation? Utter horror show?

I'm a bit relieved that I actually don't know what's really going on. Or where I am. If I did, I don't think I'd be taking any of this as well as I am now.

Crime shows and action movies can try all they want to desensitize the world to violence and death, but seeing it in real life, up close... My stomach is churning at the display. But not in a way where I think I'm going to vomit again; more like in a way that makes me feel empty on the inside. Hollow.

My chest is tightening up, too. And there are hot tears streaking my cheeks.

I think what I'm feeling is sadness. Sorrow, even.

_Loss_.

Too many lives have been squandered here tonight.

Jesus, why can't I look away? This should be freaking me the hell out, shouldn't it? Seeing five dead people  _—_ who've  _just_  died in a gruesome fashion _—_  is not the norm. I'm a bit scared, actually. I should be just like all the other people around here and trying my absolute hardest to get out of here.

Maybe I really do have a brain injury.

Oh, god, please don't let me become a psychopath.

"There you are!"

A hand lands on my shoulder and I jump under its weight. My head swivels around and I come face-to-face with a rather portly looking man, in a red coat and top hat. He looks down at me with such intensity; I'm not sure if I should be scared or not.

"You shouldn't be here!" he says to me. His voice is surprisingly soft, all though he's worried about me. Just me.

Well, yeah, no duh! I shouldn't, and neither should he! There are dead bodies just lying about and that's not exactly a good sign to see anywhere in the world. Then again, I don't even know where "here" is.

His hand stiffens on my shoulder. "Let's go. There are some people who are going to stay with you in the back by the trailers." He tries to usher me away from the gruesome display – which I understand, no one should have to see this – but I pull back. I don't know who this guy is and why he thinks he can just yank me around like that. And I sure as hell am not going go into some back trailer area with a stranger!

I'd like to think that I'm not a total idiot.

"Don't touch me!" I hiss and duck out of his grasp. I take a step back but seeing as I still feel like a walking zombie with not too much control over my body, I trip and fall on my ass.

_Ow_. As if I needed a bruised tailbone along with all this other stuff that's happening.

The man's eyes go wide and he rushes up to me. "Richard, are you okay?"

I squint my eyes and am about to tell him that's not my name when I hear a noise come from behind me. From the pile of bodies.

" _Uuhhuhg_ …" It's a low, barely audible wail, hardly loud enough to hear over all of the commotion still going on around. I freeze for a moment and think it must have been something else, or just my imagination. There's a lot of weird things going on right now.

But then I hear it again.

" _Huhggguh_ … _Hhhheeehhhpp_ … _Mmmheeeeehhh_ "

Oh, fuck! I think one of them is still alive!

Or I was right about this being the start of the zombie apocalypse.

I whip my head around to the man in the red coat  _—_  whom I can only presume is the Ringmaster given his ridiculous get-up  _—_  and scream, "One of them is still alive! Help them! Someone do something!"

Now that I think about it, where the hell are the ambulances? The police? Several people are dead and no one seems to care about that except me! Don't tell me we're in the middle of the boonies or some bullshit excuse like that. This is ridiculous.

"Samson!" yells out the Ringmaster at the top of his lungs. "Samson, get over here! Now!"

Before I can even blink, a man who looks to be the size of a rhino comes barreling through the chaos. He's wearing a striped leotard that conceals very little of his body from view. The strongman's arms are bulging with muscle, and if this introduction were under any other kind of circumstances, I would have taken a full few minutes to be thoroughly impressed with his physique.

"Get him out of here, Samson!" shouts the Ringmaster. "Throw him over your shoulder if you must!"

The moment I realize they're talking about me, it's too late.

"Sorry, Dickie," he says in a near whisper. Then, Samson, the behemoth of a man, shows no trouble of scooping me up and carrying me beneath an arm. The sad thing is, I don't think this even counts as the most degrading thing that's happened in my life.

Samson takes off running and I try to squirm my way free, but stand no chance. I can only watch helplessly as the fallen acrobats grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Then, I see that the paramedics have arrived and are running up to the scene.

Took them damn long enough.

Right before we leave, I make eye contact with a tall, dark-haired man standing across the room. He's wearing an expensive looking suit and appears remarkably well-groomed in comparison to everyone else here tonight. What kind of pretentious A-hole wears a suit to the circus?

Yet, there's something about him that makes it so that I can't take my eyes off him. His posture is rigid, and his expression is just so...  _dark_. He doesn't blink, either.

And he's still watching me.  _Just_  me. Like nothing else that's happening around him matters right now.

_Creep_.

Samson runs through a flap in the tent and suddenly we're fully outdoors. I look up and see the night sky. It's clouded and grey. It looks like it could rain at any moment.

I take a deep breath and the cool air is very refreshing. I feel awake. Alive.

"You can put me down!" I call out.

Now that I'm out of the chaos, I realize that the sound of my voice is nearly unrecognizable. I don't remember it being so scratchy. Maybe it's the flu.

Samson carefully lowers me until I'm standing on my own feet again. I readjust my pants (which are far too tight) and grimace.  _Worst_.  _Wedgie_.  _Ever_.

"Uh, thanks?" I tell the strange man.

Talk about awkward situations.

I look up at Samson, and for a moment, think that maybe I should say something else to him. But then I figure that it's better to just leave things how they are. He doesn't know me and I don't know him. I'm perfectly okay with parting as strangers - even if he did just man-handle me a second ago.

Time to go!

I give a small nod and start to walk away. All I know is that this place is crazy and I don't want to be here. There are dead bodies and creepy strangers staring at me, and I'm sure there are clowns lurking about, too. Uh! I do  _not_  like clowns! I mean, who does? So overall, there are just a bunch of things going on here that I am really not in the mood to deal with.

Man, later on, I'm really going to need to do some self-introspection and ask why drunk me thought it would be a good idea to go to the circus. I hate the  _circus_.

A man rushes by me and is clearly having a meltdown. I step to the side to make room because it doesn't seem like he's paying too much attention to his surroundings right now. "Of course. Only in Gotham... Damn city..." he mutters under his breath. I watch as he finds his car in the gravel lot and quickly drives off.

Gotham? Like New York City? I've never been to New York… At least I don't think I have. Hmm. I would think I would remember something like that.

A series of police cars are now swarming in the parking lot. Frenzied civilians are still panicked, fighting to get out, wanting nothing more than to get home and forget this whole ordeal.

I guess it's a good thing that I blacked out and didn't see the accident. I'm screwed up enough as it is.

I touch the back of my head once more and bite down on my lip when even the slightest touch makes it feel like a thousand nerve endings are on fire. I probably should still get this checked out, but not here, I don't think. The fact that I'm up and walking is a good sign. I should just go home and take it easy. Finally get that aspirin I'm dying for. The emergency room can wait.

Crud.

Where  _is_  home?

My breathing suddenly picks up and I think I'm starting to hyperventilate.

Okay, don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. It's all going to be okay... Just keep breathing. In and out, in and out.

Are you there God? It's me. I promise not to drink anymore after this, okay? Now can you help me get home?

Hello?

No, you're not going to say anything?

Of course. Why am I not surprised?

That's fine. I can handle myself just fine. All I have to do is walk off whatever this weird drunken nightmare is.

Hell, maybe I'm high. But this is some intense trip, then, and I don't even do stuff like that. Shit, did someone spike my drink? That ain't cool!

Ugh, whatever the case, I gotta distance myself right now from this place. This is just too much for me to handle.

I begin to leave.

"Robin, wait!" Samson calls out suddenly, sounding upset. "Where are you going? You have to stay here!"

Is he still talking to me? C'mon, dude! I'm not bothering anyone!

"Come back here!"

I stop, sigh, and turn around. "What?" I snap rather aggressively.

The man suddenly goes stiff and looks like he's about to break down into a million little pieces. His lips quiver.

Oh, god. I made a 300-pound muscle man cry. This is a new low, even for me.

"I'm…I'm just s-so sorry!" Samson begins to sob aloud. "Oh,  _god_ … I'm so sorry, Robin! Here I am crying while you... you.." He bursts into more tears.

Oh, damn it. Why do I have to be all sympathetic right now?

I jog back to Samson and chew on the inside of my cheek in thought. This is not an ideal situation for me. I step up onto a wooden picnic bench Samson is next to so that I can reach and give his back a comforting pat.

Okay, either this guy really is part giant or I've somehow shrunk like crazy. I wouldn't say I was ever  _big_  but I sure as hell wasn't a scrawny pipsqueak, either! My hand looks so darn small in comparison to Samson, it's kind of freaky.

I feel his body quiver under my touch.

Come on, Me, think. Say something supportive. People died tonight and this guy probably worked with them. They were probably his friends.

"It's terrible what happened. Truly awful. But an accident's an accident, y'know? Sometimes things like this just happen."

Of course, if those idiots had just used a safety net...

Aw. That was mean of me. I really need to be less mean.

Through his sobbing, Samson looks up at me and his eyes are filled with a shade of disbelief, as if I had just said something impious. Okay, I get it. I'm not the best at comforting people.

Before I can try to ease the crying giant any more, I spot another man walking up to us through the corner of my eye. He appears to be in his early fifties, with thick glasses and a ridiculous orange mustache.

"Hello, my name is Jim Gordon." He kneels in front of the bench I'm standing on, either to make me feel bigger or because he wants me to sit. He pulls out a shining gold badge from the inside of his coat. "I'm a detective with the GCPD. Is it all right for me to talk to you?"

Samson collects himself a bit and gives me a small nod of approval. "It's okay, Dickie" he says and stands, towering over the Detective and me. "I'll give you some space to talk. But if you need me, I'll be right over there, okay?"

Um, okay?

I watch quietly as Samson make his way over to where a group of funnily dressed circus performers are huddled together near a smaller sized tent. They're whispering and crying to one another, and every so often, one of them looks in my direction and then bursts into more tears.

What the hell is going on? Who are these people?

I then turn my attention back to the detective and clear my throat. "Uh, yeah. Sure," I tell him and take a seat on the bench table. I rub my arms and suddenly wish that I was wearing a jacket because  _damn_ is it cold out!

"Why talk to me? I'm sure there are more important people you could talk to. I didn't even see when they fell."

"Oh, thank god! That's such a relief to hear," says Detective Gordon with a deep sigh. He straightens up a bit and tries to give a comforting smile. "I'm here to ask you a few questions about who may have done it. This might be tough for you, but that's okay. Just take your time."

Done 'it'? What is he talking about? They fell. There was no net. You don't have to be a detective or understand how physics works to know that.

"Did your family have enemies?" he asks, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "Did you ever hear anyone get mad at your parents? Say they want to hurt them? Or ask for money?"

Whoa. What is this guy babbling about?

Those people in there, they were  _not_  my family. I think I would have recognized them if they were. He must have me confused for someone else. Because I don't know anything about this messed up circus.

"My family? I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about, Detective. I'm not even sure how I got here."

Detective Gordon frowns, then raises an eyebrow. "You're Richard Grayson, aren't you?"

And yet again someone calls me by that name. I mean, the name does sound familiar to me. Really familiar, in fact, like I should know it. But that isn't  _my_  name. My name is…

My name is...

Oh, fuck.

I don't even know my own name!  _Why_   _don't I know what my name is?_

" _Uhh,_ " I mumble out in sudden panic. I watch as the detective closes his eyes, lets out a small sigh, and shakes his head slowly.

"Detective!" comes a hoarse voice from nearby. I see the man in the top hat  _—_  the Ringmaster — come charging out of the main tent. He looks sweaty and worn out. Completely exhausted. Someone should get him a drink.

He hurries up to the two of us. "I don't think now is the best time to be questioning the boy, do you? This can surely wait!"

Detective Gordon stands to face the Ringmaster. "My apologies, Mr. Haly. It seems like I have the wrong person, anyway."

The Ringmaster, whose name I guess is Haly, furrows his brow and tilts his head. "Well, who are you looking for?"

Gordon pulls out a small notebook and flips through a page or two. He nods slightly and says, "I was told the Grayson's had a kid. He wasn't in the act tonight, but is supposed to be here."

Haly then looks even more confused. His glassy eyes land on me and he points to my chest. "This is him," Haly tells Gordon. "This is Richard Grayson."

Wait.

I think I'm remembering.

Richard Grayson.

Richard.

Grayson.

Gotham...

Circus...

Robin...

Oh,  _shit_!

How the hell did it take me this long to realize what's going on?

Yes, now everything makes sense! Of course! This is all just some uncanny dream I'm having. A really, really, vivid dream. I must have passed out watching cartoons last night, which then prompted me to imagine all of this.

Wow, am I stupid. Well, more likely just very drunk.

Wait, can you be drunk in a dream? Eh, that doesn't matter now, because none of this is real, so who cares!

I let out a deep sigh and feel a wave of comfort wash over me.

What a relief this is!

No one's actually dead. Thank god.

All this being a dream explains so much, like why everything is so crazy and why I couldn't remember anything! And especially why I would be at the circus of all places.

And because this is a dream, that's why I'm not reacting to all these things as a normal person should. No one acts as they should in a dream. Yay for not being a psychopath!

But why would I have a dream about the night Dick Grayson's family dies? It's an oddly specific event, and everything I'm seeing is pretty detailed. I didn't even realize I knew this much about his backstory, other than that he was an orphan from a traveling circus. I guess I must have picked up more information than I realized when watching the shows.

I guess now that I'm realizing all this, I'm a bit bummed that this is my superhero dream. I mean, if I'm going to have a cool, lucid dream where I get to be a comic book hero, then at least let me have one where I get to fly around and stop super villains! Living through a tragic origin story is boring and cliché. I want to do something interesting! Put me where the action is!

Oh, well. Maybe in my next dream, I can be Superman.

"Dick Grayson, huh?" I mumble softly, lost in my thoughts. I pay no attention to Gordon or Haly.

Robin. The first ever comic book sidekick.

Protégé and trusted partner to Batman, and together they're the dynamic duo!

He's a founder of the Teen Titans.

And later on, he becomes Nightwing (who is arguably one of the best heroes ever created.)

And I get to be him!

Well, it's only a dream. But still, that's cool!

I shake my head and begin to laugh.

Loudly.

And I can't stop. I think I even feel a cramp form in my gut.

Detective Gordon and Mr. Haly stare at me with concern. It's probably deeply troubling for them to see the young boy who just witnessed his family fall to their deaths become hysterical. Mr. Haly whispers something under his breath and then rushes off. I wipe a stray tear away from my eye and try to settle down. Gordon takes a deep breath, and his tired expression tells me that he's desperately craving a cigarette.

It's not my fault they're unaware that they're only figments of my imagination. They can think whatever they want of me, because they're not real! In fact, they'll be gone from existence in a minute once I wake up.

"Richard," Gordon says slowly and I do my best to calm myself down. His voice is breathy and I think he's trying to find the right words. "What happened tonight, it's… Tragic, to say the least. And I am so very sorry that you had to witness what happened."

And it's as he says this that I decide I might as well play along. I mean, why not? Dreams are the only part of life where people are allowed to have fun. Live out wild and impossible fantasies, hindered only by the imagination. So screw it.

For now, I'll be Richard Grayson. And as of right now, Richard Grayson has just become an orphan.

Time to play the part.

Thunder dramatically rips through the sky, and all at once, the sky opens up and lets down a heavy rainfall. I'm completely soaked in a matter of seconds. But you know what? I'm not even mad about it. If anything, I'm really impressed with how real this all feels right now. Usually, in my dreams, there's  _some_  resemblance to the feeling or sensation that I experience, but I still know that it's not real.

This rain, though? This is legit. Has me thinking that when I wake up I'll be sopping wet, too, it's so believable.

In fact, my body shivers. An honest to god, bone-chilling shake. I look down at myself and see that I'm wearing a Flying Grayson uniform; it matches the ones worn by the dead bodies inside perfectly. I guess jackets didn't vibe well with their style.

Something is shoved in front of my face and I look up to see Detective Gordon holding out his heavy, brown leather coat. His orange mustache droops under the weight of the rain. "Here," he says gruffly. "We should get out of this weather. Don't need you getting sick."

How thoughtful.

I grab the large coat and nod my head in thanks, then pull it on over my body. It's probably five times too big for me, but I immediately feel warm with it on. I even smile in appreciation.

A paramedic approaches from the parking lot, trying her best to shield her face from the rain. Detective Gordon steps to the side, allowing her access to me. She says nothing to me as she pulls out a thin cylinder from her pocket and then uses it to shine a bright light into my eyes. I instinctively swat at her arm. Dream or not, that's annoying as hell.

"I think we need to have you checked out by a doctor. It looks like you hit your head pretty badly," she says, taking notice of the gash on my head. "Could be a pretty severe concussion."

Another EMT appears seemingly out of nowhere with a stretcher. He grabs onto my wrist and attempts to pull me on it.

"Wait, no, stop!" I scream out and recoil. "Don't!"

Was I overreacting? Maybe a little. But I'm processing a lot of stuff right now. And I don't like strangers touching me, real or not.

Besides, it's my dream. Shouldn't I get to control what happens next?

"It's going to be all right, kid," the first paramedic says to me. Even over the loudness of the rain, I can hear a genuine sympathy in her tone.

Of course, I want to tell her that everything's fine and I'm not really a kid. That there's no need to patronize me. But I can only imagine how soul-shattering it would be to be told that your entire existence isn't real. That you're just a made up character in someone's mind. How would someone cope with that?

Yeah, I'm not going to do that to them. Their time's already limited as it is.

But the next thing I know, I'm being strapped to the stretcher by her partner and pushed into an ambulance. Damn. Guess I'm not all that great at lucid dreaming, after all.

"Don't worry, Dick!" I hear Haly yell to me from afar. "I'll be there as soon as I can!"

I'm feeling too overwhelmed to try and struggle against the restraints. The EMT places an oxygen mask over my face. "Where are you taking me?" I manage to bark out.

"Gotham General. Just try and relax, we'll take good care of you."

With that, I suddenly feel extremely tired, like a wave has just washed over me. The fresh oxygen tickles my brain and the heavy blankets are somewhat comforting. And it's nice to be out of the rain. It's warm. Cozy, even.

You know what? Fuck it. Why fight this? It's just a dream, right? Might as well go with it. Now that I know none of this is real, I'll probably be waking up soon, anyway. Coming to self-realization usually indicates that the brain is starting to come out of the REM cycle. Any second now, and all this will come to an end. Then, I'll find myself waking up in my bed (I hope) and most likely late for whatever it is I need to be doing in real life.

I sigh.

_Man_.

Dick Grayson.

I stifle back a laugh, which garners little attention from the EMT.

I suppose there were worse characters to be.

Too bad I won't have the chance to try my hand at being Robin. I think I could've had some actual fun with that. Swinging off the side of a building, or throwing a bat-a-rang!  _Oh_ ,  _oh_ , better yet, I want to drive the Bat-mobile!

Or at least tell Batman that he should try therapy.

I'm sure that would have gone well.

Heh.

I can't believe I'm Robin right now. The Boy freakin' Wonder. Maybe after this, I'll get back into reading comics. Don't really know why I stopped in the first place, anyway.

I feel my eyes grow tired and they begin to close. The truck's engine starts and we drive away; I find the soft rattling motion to be soothing and rhythmic. No harm in drifting off, I guess.

Good thing this is just a dream, because if this were real, falling asleep would be the last thing I'd want to do right now with my concussion.

Hmm.

What a strange dream indeed.

I don't think I've ever had one this clear.

The way everything feels so real. Like I'm actually here. I hope I can have dreams like this again.

But, as interesting as this has been, I think I'm ready for it to be over.

It's time to wake up now.

* * *

✖.✖.✖


	2. False Awakening

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**2**  
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**FALSE AWAKENING**  
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Cold.

That's the first thing I think of when I gain consciousness.

I can tell I'm in a bed - with a terribly uncomfortable mattress and pillow that feels of cardboard - which provides so relief, to say the least; it means I'm not passed out in some bar or bush in the park, huzzah! But I do know that this isn't  _my_  bed - my body doesn't feel right laying in it.

So, still some place unknown, but at least I'm in a bed. Things could be worse.

I shift my arms around and find my body to be wrapped in layers of itchy blankets and sheets; yet, even cocooned like I am, I still feel cold. Chilled to the bone.

Holy hell, can someone crank up the thermostat? Is that so hard to do? No one likes to pretend they live in the Arctic circle, people!

Gosh.

A shiver runs down my spine. Oh, I swear to god, I better not be getting sick. Ain't nobody got time for that.

My eyes open groggily and I find myself surrounded by the color white and the scent of antiseptic cleaning chemicals. My nose crinkles. It's a bit nauseating, but not too overpowering - just strong enough to irk me, but not bad enough to actually make me not want to breathe.

Okay, let's take inventory of what we got here.

White bed, white walls, tile floor. The feeling that everything has been scrubbed clean with bleach. And, as I focus on my surroundings more, I pick up the faint sounds of machine buzzings and beepings.

Yep. Got it.

With the realization of where I am, I let out a low, gurgling groan of displeasure. I don't need to be the boy detective to figure this mystery out.

So here's the deal: I hate hospitals. Plain and simple.

They give me the heebie-jeebies and only serve to remind me of how sick and terrible things can be – how anyone can fall ill to disease. And the idea of being surrounded by so many germs and viruses skeeves me out. Chances are, someones died in this very bed that I'm in now.  _Ick_.

So that then serves the question, why am I in one?

I take a moment to untangle myself from the paper-thin sheets and sit up. I get annoyingly dizzy from the sudden movement and wobble around like a tilt-a-whirl; I brace one hand against the wall behind me and one on the bed as I ride out the vertigo sensation.

_Whoah_. Talk about a head rush!

My eyes clamp shut and I struggle to fight back a sudden urge to vomit.

The good news is that it doesn't feel like my entire being is deteriorating from within any longer. Now, I just think my stomach is trying to physically escape my body - a few steps down in the "Wow-I-Feel-Like-Shit-O-Meter."

But that makes sense, because when I did feel that way, I was dreaming.

And what a dream that had been.

I was Dick Grayson, the kick-ass superhero from the DC Comic universe – though it took me a good while to figure that much out. Though I'm sure why I would imagine myself as him; I like him enough as a character, but I wouldn't say he's my favorite.

And if I'm being totally honest, Jason Todd is my favorite Robin. I have a soft spot for the misunderstood.

Thinking more about the dream – which I can still remember in surprisingly vivid detail, unlike most of the time where I forget everything the second I wake up – it was the most realistic and tangible dream I'd ever had.

I remember the rain, and how it pelted against my bare skin, and how even the tiny hairs on my arms reacted to the sensation. I can practically still feel the lingering pain at the nape of my neck, where I had fallen on a rock. The sticky warm blood on my fingers when I touched it.

Then I remember the Flying Graysons. How bloodcurdling the sight of those acrobats' mangled bodies was. How I could only stand there, mouth agape in both disgust and fright, and think how awful of an origin story poor Dick Grayson was forced to experience.

Those DC writers must have been sadists back in the day. First, they make young Bruce Wayne watch own his parents get shot point-blank in a dark, dank alleyway, and then, years later, force little Dick Grayson to watch his family fall to their deaths.

I just don't think every hero needs a tragic backstory to be a well-developed, three-dimensional character, y'know? It's not like the audience is going to relate to that kind of stuff. Sympathize, yes; empathize, no.

Now back to my concern at hand: why am I at the hospital?

The first idea that runs through my head is that I had my stomached pumped. That would account for the headache, nauseous feeling in my gut, and the IV drip in my arm pumping me full of fluids. If I had gone on an intense drinking spree, I probably did pass out and someone called an ambulance worried that I'd asphyxiate on my own vomit. It would also make sense that because I blacked out so badly, I still can't remember what exactly happened and why my mind is so fogged over.

A chuckle escapes my lips as I remember the promise I made to myself in the dream, where I vowed to never drink again. Real or not, maybe I should stick with it.

When I turn my head to get a better look of the small room I'm in, I discern a cool sensation coming from the back of my head at the base of my skull. I stop and go to touch it. My fingertips lightly brush against spongy gauze. I move my hands over the strips of cloth and realize that they're wrapped all around my head. There's only one reason why I would have these on.

A head injury.

Just like the dream…

Wait? If I really do have a concussion, who allowed me to fall asleep! That's like rule number one: don't let the person with a bumped noggin go to bed!

Oh, now I'm angry. What kind of hospital is this?

My head turns to look around, but I don't see any call button for me to press. In fact, I don't see any way to garner the attention of the attending physician or nurse. "Hello?" I call out, hoping that someone will hear and come in the room.

I wait.

Nobody comes.

For the briefest of seconds, I'm reminded of the Walking Dead, when the main character guy wakes up in the hospital in the first episode and no one is around because, well, they're all zombies or dead.

I really hope this isn't that.

"I'm awake! Anybody out there?" I shout a bit louder, feeling rightfully agitated.

A solid minute passes by in silence and I frown in dismay.

So, what? Do I have to do all the work myself?  _Ugh_! Fine. Whatever.

I clamber out of the bed and nearly slip on the slick tile floor. Luckily, my center of gravity is low and I'm able to keep my footing. I'm ready to stomp out into the hallway to find someone and ask for some help, maybe even yell about their poor service, but stop when I remember the tube still in my arm anchoring me to the bed.

No. I am not going to be one of those stupid people who just rip out their own IV in TV shows. I  _refuse_  to be that person.

My eyes go back and forth between the tube, the machine it's hooked up to in the wall, and the door. Then I look out the window that shows into the hallway on the other side. It's totally empty.

Why is this place so understaffed? This is ridiculous!

Damn it.

I'm going to be one of those stupid people who rip out their own IV.

My jaw clenches from the irony.

I grasp my fingers around the end of the tube, where it meets my arm and pierces through the skin right below my inner-elbow. The area is already tender and already beginning to bruise; I can tell that this is going to hurt like a motherforker.

Okay, Me, take a deep breath in and on the count of three, pull. Easy-peasy.

_One…_

Don't panic. I can do this.

_Two…_

It's just a little tube connected to a bag sticking out of my vein. No big deal.

_Three!_

I yank hard and the tape keeping it secured to my arm tears off, pulling at the sensitive skin. The catheter slides out with a sickening ' _pop_ ' and I drop it to the floor the moment it's free; saline fluids trickle out of the end and puddle onto the floor. In hindsight, I should have at least peeled the tape off first, which would have helped a bit.

_"FUCK!"_  I hiss loudly and slap the penetration site with my other hand. I see splotches for just a second from the pain and bite my cheeks to keep from swearing any more.

Okay. That was arguably not one of my smarter ideas, but I want out of here as soon as possible and it seems like I'm at the bottom of the totem pole regarding check-ins.

I shuffle into the bathroom that's connected to the room and fall to the floor on my knees. I pull my body to the toilet and lean my head over the porcelain bowl. Okay, so I still feel pretty bad, but nowhere near how I did at the circus. My stomach convulses and I heave. Nothing comes out. My chest tightens up, so desperately trying to push up something. I figure my stomach must be empty. Who knows how long I've been living on the IV diet.

I whimper. This is going to be one hell of a bill to pay. They practically charge by the hour when you're an in-patient. Crap. Really hope my insurance is up to date.

I continue to dry heave for several minutes. My body is sweaty and my hands are shaking. I imagine that this is what it feels like to go through detox.

My brows furrow in thought.  _Am_  I detoxing? I certainly hope not! Yeah, I'm guilty of using excessive alcohol, but that's about it for my vices.

Jesus, I need to find someone to tell me just what the hell is going on.

When my chest and throat stop convulsing and everything settles down, I slowly bring myself to stand, flush the empty toilet, and move to the sink. I squeeze my eyes open and shut a few times as I turn on the facet.

I must look like garbage. A hot, disastrous mess.

My hands cup under the running tap and I splash cold water onto my face. Immediately, my senses are awakened as if a fresh breath of air has been blown into my lungs. I repeat that a few more times.

Feeling refreshed and a bit less like death, I turn off the sink and raise my head to examine my reflection. Time to see the damage.

" _What_?" I squeak.

My heart skips a bit. My blood turns cold. A panic erupts through my nervous system.

That's… that's not right. That's not my reflection?

My mouth opens; jaw shaking as I process what's happening right now. I turn my head left, then right, then left again.

No, no, no, no! What is happening? That is not my face!

I am not a child!

Who is this stranger looking back at me?

And why—

_Oh_.

Wait.

I know that face. It's not  _my_  face, but I know it.

I've viewed it on TV. Seen it drawn out in comics.

Realization dawns on me and I want to scream with frustration.

Fuck me, I'm still Dick Grayson!

This is still a dream!

I slam my fist against the sink and exhale all the pent up anger.  _Why_  am I still dreaming? I thought when I drifted off to sleep in the ambulance I was waking up? Was that like some sort of dream within a dream? Is this some kind of inception BS?

Okay, so it's a bit ridiculous that I'm so upset about all this being in a dream, I can realize that much. Like, there's no real rational reason for me to be angry or frustrated right now. The fact is, I'm asleep and dreaming, so what? It's literally what every single person on the planet does every single night. My adverse reactions are uncalled for, I'll admit it.

I take a good, deep breath and look into the mirror to stare deeply at the reflection.

My god, I think. He really is just a kid. This is kind of sad. No kid should have to deal with this - fictional or not.

I carefully take stock of my current appearance. Fair, unblemished skin. Dark, messy hair that's only ever been cut with a pair of kitchen scissors. And these eyes. Only a comic book character could have eyes that this insanely blue.

I raise a hand and watch the reflection perfectly mirror my every action.

Thinking about this with a more level-headed mindset, I believe the reason why I'm so bothered,  _unnerved,_  by all of this, is because I've never experienced a dream this life-like. It's eerie how real it all seems.

And it scares me, that once again, it took me so long to realize none of this was real.

Oddly, it makes me think about a book I read back when I was young. I don't recall the title, or even what it was about, but one of the major plot points for the main character was that he becomes blind in an accident. The character's not angry and he learns to cope over time, but his biggest fear becomes not knowing whether he's awake or asleep – if his eyes are open or close – as even in he dreams he can longer see.

I don't want to lose my grip on reality and keep thinking that this dream I'm having – no matter how cool of a premise it has – is real.

And to top it all off, I still can't remember my name!

I don't know who I am when I'm here. Zero recollection of my true self.

It's like I no longer exist. My life erased from existence.

Now, I'm only Richard Grayson.

And that terrifies me.

Deep breaths, Me. Deep breaths. It's only a dream. And I like dreaming. Dreams are fun. There is nothing wrong with this.

Everything is fine.

...It has to be.

Over the next several minutes, I conclude that there are two ways I can play this out.

Option one: try and do my best to recreate Dick Grayson's origin story according to my limited knowledge.

This will lead to a story progression where I will be taken in by Bruce Wayne, trained in skills and manners that no seven or eight year old should ever be trained, and eventually take up the mantle as Robin.

Cons for this include me not knowing enough canon material and messing things up. Possibly leading to more harm than good. I don't know Dick's backstory super well, just that he wants revenge against the guy who killed his family.

Oh, man. What's the guy's name? Who killed my – I mean, Dick's – parents? It's on the tip of my tongue, I swear!

Zukko, Zippo, Zucco? Yeah, Zucco, I think that's it!

So following this "path", I will go out and seek vengeance against Zucco, and then Batman will try to stop my or something because he doesn't want me – I mean Dick! – to end up like him. I think this makes Dick angry, and… wait, is that why he eventually becomes Nightwing?

You know, that's actually never been too clear for me. What causes Dick Grayson to step away from being Robin? Will I find out? Or will my brain improvise and make something up that isn't true to the story?

Then there's option two.

I just wing everything.

I'll make everything up as I go. Essentially, I won't bother trying to stick to anything canon. Why do I have to be destined to be Robin? Better yet, do I even want to be Robin? Is it possible for Dick Grayson to lead a more fulfilling, less dangerous life if Bruce Wayne is never a factor to begin with?

The biggest downside to this plan is that I don't get to become a badass crime fighter and meet other cool superheroes. If I go with this, I'm essentially just a totally random person, stuck in the DC universe, who is also called Richard Grayson.

I think in fanfiction, they would call that OOC.

"Richard?" someone calls out, bringing me out of my thoughts.

I tense up.

Someone is in my room.

I don't know why, but I feel nervous? Like I shouldn't mess this up, this role, or whatever it is. Almost like stage fright. It's ridiculous to feel this way, though, because there's absolutely nothing at stake here. Hell, I could pretend that I've gone insane and believe I'm a llama from space! Richard Grayson, who? No, I'm Saint Buzz Grandberry! King llama from the planet Thraxor, and notorious space pirate!

Okay. So maybe I won't do that. But I'm just saying, I  _could_.

Still, I'm weirdly anxious about all this.

"Richard?" I hear the voice call again. I'm sure once they spot the IV tube on the floor they  _totally_  won't freak out or anything.

Ugh. I should go out there.

My eyes close and I take a deep breath. I tell myself nothing here is real, none of this matters, everything will be fine. It's all a dream.

Geez, I've been telling myself that a lot, lately. Maybe I should adopt that as my official mantra? Make it into a little jingle.

"Are you in here?" the voice says. I hear footsteps approaching the bathroom door.

Y'know what, screw this. That fact that I'm overthinking all this is silly. It's not like I've ever worried this much in a dream before. Absolutely no reason for me to get all wound up about this; I'm just going to give in and play the part.

I'm Richard Grayson now.

For a second time...

Embrace it, Me.

I poke my head out of the bathroom and see a familiar looking man. My eyebrows furrow. He's tall, dark-haired, and incredibly well-dressed. I don't think he's a cop – doesn't have the gruff look required for it. Maybe he's with social services?

Adjusting my gown – making sure that all strings are tied in the back and nothing's showing – I step back into the room. He sees me and an expression of ease crosses his face. "There you are," he says. "I was beginning to worry."

I look at the man with a quizzical glare, keeping my distance. Where have I seen him before? It must have been at the circus, because, that's the only other place I've been to.

Then it dawns on me. He was the man I saw right before Samson could carry me out of the tent. He had been watching me.

Gross, is he a stalker?

Oh, shit! What if this is Zucco, here to finish the job?

My mind jumps into a panic as a look around the room for something I could use as a weapon to defend myself with. I could push the chair at him, throw him off his rhythm, and then make a break for the door. If that didn't work, I'm sure there's something sharp to use in one of those drawers by the bed. Question is, how do I get there?

Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man-oh—

"Richard? Are you okay? You look like you're about to faint!"

I stare up at the man, eyes wide. I must be pale as a ghost, because I think all the blood in my body has just rushed to my feet.

Why am I so scared? I should not be scared!

If this  _is_  Tony Zucco and he is here to kill me, so what? I "die" and then the dream is over, right? I should be fine with that! Yeah, let's wrap this thing up. I've got things to do.

Swallowing the fear I had just a moment ago, I stand a bit taller and stare the man down. "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry for intruding. I didn't intend to frighten you." The mystery man takes a step back, giving me more space.

Well, he's probably not a mobster hit-man come to kill me. I don't think he'd be so polite if he were. I patiently wait for his self-introduction.

"My name is Bruce Wayne."

Oh. Okay. I see that we're just jumping right into the swing of things. Cool, that's fine. Let's get this story rolling.

"'Sup?"

Ooo _h myyyy gooood_! Why am I such an idiot? That's not how you're supposed to greet someone! This is Bruce Wayne –  _the_  Batman! Don't be so… so…  _casual_!

He, however, seems to pay no attention to my lack of manners and gestures to the chair positioned next to the bed. "Do you mind?" I shake my head, giving him the go-ahead. He sits down and nicely folds his hands together. "I'm sorry about what's happened."

"Why be sorry? It's not like you could have done anything to stop it."

His eyes darken. I might have pushed a button. He's Batman. Of course he could have done something. I wonder if he's angry with himself for not figuring this out earlier? Realized that something was awry with the strange traveling circus that had rolled into town.

"You were there that night. I saw you." Not sure why he would be, other than it being a plot device. Why would the richest man in Gotham pay money to be surrounded by a bunch of common folks and watch a show? Like, I get the Flying Graysons were supposed to be good – "Amazing" was how they were billed on the posters – but a guy such as Bruce Wayne surely could have easily gone to Vegas instead if he wanted to entertainment.

Bruce nods his head solemnly. "Yes, I was."

Hell, he's probably more traumatized by the event than me. I didn't even see it happen while he did! Or did it technically not even happen because the world didn't come into existence until my dream started and I "woke" up at the circus? That's too perplexing for me to think about.

"I wouldn't take you to be the type of person who enjoys the circus," I remark and lean my back against the wall. My body is beginning to feel tired and I should probably rest soon, but I still want to keep my distance for the moment.

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me."

"I know that you're crazy rich."

His head tilts with curiosity. I'm betting that he wants to see how good my observational skills are. If I have what it takes to be Batman's protege. "How's that?"

I point to his attire: a navy blue suit that fits perfectly, silver cufflinks with opal inlay, a silk tie, Rolex watch, and real leather shoes. "No one can afford to wear all that. Dead giveaway. There's also no rattle to indicate keys in your pockets, meaning that you didn't drive here yourself. My guess, you have a chauffeur."

He smiles, seemingly impressed. "Yes, I suppose it is."

I grin. "Then again, the first thing you did was tell me who you were and I mean, come on, I may have been raised in the circus but I didn't live under a rock. I've heard the name of one of the world's richest people once or twice before."

Bruce lets out a laugh that fills the room.

Holy shit. I didn't think Batman could do that; like, the comic book writers made that part of his core characteristics: Bruce Wayne does not laugh!

"I should have assumed as much. That's my fault, isn't it?" he says with a chuckle.

I don't know how to describe it, but there's a feeling of ease filling me, as though I can finally drop my guard and just…  _give in_ , to the situation. There's no reason for me to still be so reserved about all of this. Why not be comfortable and just have fun?

I step forward and circle my way around the room until I'm back at the bed, standing on the opposite side. "Can I ask you a seemingly random question?" I ask nonchalantly, pulling myself on top of the mattress and sitting with my legs crossed.

Bruce nods. "Go ahead."

There is still information that I want to get. I know that Batman and Robin were created in the 40s or 50s, so does that mean this dream is set in that time period? Should I pretend to act like a kid from then? Not that I would really know how to, but at least I could try and fake it.

"What the date?"

His eyes narrow a bit. I think he's worried that my concussion's messed with my memory. Which, technically he's not wrong. My memory is completely out of whack right now, but not Richard Grayson's. "April sixth," he replies. "You've been in the hospital for the past few days."

Dang. This injury must have been worse than I thought. "And the year?" I prompt.

He frowns at me, definitely now concerned. "You don't recall what year it is?"

Just play it cool, Me. I don't need doctors and shrinks coming in here and making things any more complicated. "No, I do. But if you could just humor me?"

"2006," he drawls out, regarding me with careful eyes.

Yeah. I may not know much about the real world right now, but I'm damn sure that it's not 2006 in reality. So, why is it in my dream? I can't think of anything major comic book wise that takes place in that year. Or in my actual life.

"Right," I nod my head, deep in through. "Thanks."

"You seem pretty composed right now," Bruce says. I can't tell if he's saying that because he's impressed or worried.

He is right, though. I'm fine right now, all things considered.

Yeah, I'm a bit peeved that I'm still stuck in this dream, but I'm not having a total breakdown.

If this were real, as in, if I were a real kid who had just lost his parents in a horribly gruesome fashion, most likely never to see my circus family and friends again, I would be a blubbering mess. I would be grouchy and screaming and crying and angry. I would be cursing the world and throwing tantrums.

But I'm not.

Because why would I be?

I didn't even know the Graysons.

And the more important factor -  _they're not real!_

"Stages of grief, right?" I offer as an explanation, shrugging my shoulders. "This must be what, stage one denial?"

Bruce hums in thought.

It makes me think that maybe I should act a little more grief-stricken right now. Bruce might think I'm a sociopath or something if I don't. Maybe he'll even lock me in Arkham. Anything's possible. I'm sure I've already diverted from the source material enough that this could count as an "Elsewhere" issue.

And in one of those, Batman was a freakin' flesh-eating vampire.

So yeah, I don't think me being carted off to the asylum is totally off the table if I don't start acting the way Dick did in the comics. Which I can only assume was him being a depressed, angsty child for a good long while.

Why, oh why, did I have to dream of myself as a pre-Robin Dick Grayson? Why couldn't it have been later on, when he's already established as a hero? Or even Nightwing? Then I wouldn't have to deal with all of this...

_Ugh._  Let's just keep things moving, Me.

If this is still a weird dream, maybe I can't wake up until I've reached a certain part of the story. Kind of like how in most dreams you wake up right as things get good or you're about to reach an important part? Maybe that's the case here. Maybe for me, that point is becoming Robin.

If so, I better play along. Get out of this hospital fast, and start my new life as Bruce Wayne's ward.

Ew. Ward. I've never liked that word. And saying I'm going to be such just makes it seem like I'm a piece of property being tossed around. Talk about objectification.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Wayne?" I ask – though it's not like I don't know. He's worried about me. He wants to make sure that Dick Grayson doesn't turn dark and brooding the same way he did when his parents died. He doesn't want Batman 2.0. "Why do you want to talk to me?"

He looks at me, eyes unwavering. "I want to help."

Of course, he does. He's Batman. He's part of the Justice League. Helping is what he does. "Help how?" I ask coyly.

Dick Grayson may want retribution for his parents' deaths, but he's not going to just trust some stranger out of the blue. If anything, this would be a point in time that Dick Grayson should be the most skeptical of people. How does he know Bruce Wayne doesn't have ties to the mafia? Rich people can be shady, too.

"By bringing justice to your family, to  _you_ ," He tells me in a serious tone. "I'll do whatever I can to help catch the man responsible."

Hey, it could have been a woman who did it. You don't know, Bruce. I mean, I do know, and it is a man, but equal opportunity and all that, right? Reexamine your personal biases, huh?

I lazily pull at the neck of my scrub gown. "Isn't that a job for the police? What good could a businessman do?" My eyes lift up to meet his and I add, "No offense."

Bruce seems to understand that I have reservations about this. Well, that Dick Grayson does, at least.  _I_  couldn't care less about all of this. I don't even know if Tony Zucco is actually ever caught in the comics; I'm just presuming he is. Batman wouldn't allow that scumbag to stay on the streets for long.

"I have resources that I can supply to the GPD. I can make sure that this case stays on the top-burner for them," he explains. "There are too many murders that go unsolved in this city."

That's for sure. Isn't Gotham like the murder capital of the world in this universe? I can never understand why anybody would willingly choose to live here.

"And you want to see this one through?" I'm not sure why I'm questioning him so much. Maybe it's because I want to see how much information I can get out of him.

Bruce nods. "Yes."

I cock my head to the side and ask perhaps a bit too playfully, "Why the special interest?"

"Believe it or not, but I see myself in you. And I think that I can help you through this."

And like the true idiot I am, I blabber the very next thing that pops into my head.

With a small shake of my head, I say, "Wow, it's just…I can't believe  _you're_  Batman."

I freeze up immediately, realizing what I had just said.

Dang, it.

I'm – no,  _Dick –_  isn't supposed to know that he's Batman. He's just some random, orphaned circus kid. Why would he know that Bruce Wayne secretly dresses up as a bat and fights crime in the middle of the night?

Bruce's face – through much training, I'm sure – remains stoic as ever, and for a second, I think that I must have broken the man. Then, a glimmer passes through his dark blue eyes and his jaw tightens. I then think that he's going to kill me because I know his deep dark secret.

Without another word, he stands quietly, walks over to the door and closes it. I hear it click with the lock. Then he makes his way to the windows and shutters the blinds, all without saying a word.

Yeah, Bruce Wayne is totally going to murder me right now.

Way to go Me, you've managed to make the superhero with biggest no-killing policy want to murder one of the most important characters in his own mythos!

Me and my big mouth.

I watch as he makes his way back to the chair and sits. His stare pierces into my own and oddly, I find myself petrified. Without so much as a scowl or snarl, Bruce Wayne's is somehow absolutely terrifying. It's like there's an aura around him that releases intimidation pheromones.

Hey, maybe he really does have a superpower after all?

His eyes narrow dangerously. He does not blink. He means business.

I can only imagine what it's like when he wears the cowl.

He's not real, I tell myself. He's a comic book character and this is still all a dream. Don't freak out.

"How do you know I'm Batman?" His voice is deadly serious.

And for the second time, I speak without thinking.

"Because I'm psychic!" I blurt out in a half-panic state. My eyes go wide.

Shit.

Looks like I'm winging this.

* * *


	3. Deep Delusions

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 **3**  
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**DEEP DELUSIONS**  
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_Crap, crap, crap!_

I want to face-palm myself right now. Hell, is that even still a thing people do? Face-palming? Gosh, I am so out of the loop on what's cool and perceived as socially acceptable...

But, yeah, the fact of the matter is that while I may not be the  _most_  comic savvy person around, I do know for a fact that Dick Grayson does not have any kind of psychic powers. Or any other cool superhuman abilities for that matter. It's what makes his unique in the world of superheroes. He's just a normal human.

Well, I wouldn't say  _normal_ , 'cause he's definitely above average - jumping off buildings and doing sweet backflips - but not a meta-gene/alien/mutated/science-experiment-gone-wrong kind of human.

Jeez, can I mess up the canon anymore?

Well, I mean,  _yes._ But I shouldn't. My brain's making this reality based off of what it knows about the DC Universe; if I mess with the source too much, for all I know, things could get really weird. And this is already weird enough as is, thank you very much.

I figure that I need to correct myself, and do so quickly. If Bruce thinks I'm psychic, then he'll start asking questions that I most certainly do not have the answers to. And when I don't have those answers, that will just make him more suspicious. Oh, god, what if he asks me to read his mind? Yeah, this isn't good. Do something now, Me!

So I blabber on, trying to make the words that come out of my mouth sound coherent and plausible, while simultaneously making it all up on the spot. "N-not like  _telepathic_  kind of psychic. I just, uh, get these feelings. Notions, I suppose? Yeah, sometimes I just know things. Not everything, though, and not all the time. Just random things...at random times."  _Wow._  That sounds  _real_  convincing, Me. Keep it up. "H-heck, I wouldn't even say it's a psychic ability and instead more like, I don't know... good intuition?"

Might as well say that I'm just really, really good at guessing things. Man, I really hate that I'm so bad at lying.

Bruce is like a statue; his stony gaze never wanders from me. He's studying me, every tiny movement, every little tick; trying to decipher who Dick Grayson really is.

Oh, who am I trying to kid? This is Batman! One of the smartest fictional characters ever created! The 21st Century Sherlock Holmes! He can  _so_  tell I'm bullshitting him right now. I doubt there's anyone who can get away with lying to his face.

Well, maybe Alfred...

Holy Shit, Batman! I get to meet Alfred!

All this lucid dreaming BS will be worth it just for that, I swear.

Bruce sits up straight, his hands draped over the armrests. "And one of these  _'things'_  you know is that I'm Batman?" His face portrays nothing, giving me no hints as to what he's actually thinking or feeling at this moment.

It's interesting, though, because technically, Bruce didn't deny it.

I would have thought that he'd flat out reject that allegation and tell me not to be so preposterous. That my head injury is giving me ideas of grandeur or something like that. Or he'd laugh in my face and tell me that I've read too many silly stories and don't know anything because I'm only a kid, and that there is no way that he, Bruce Wayne, could possibly be the Batman.

_Buuuuut_ , because I am kind of destined to be his crime-fighting partner, is it possible that he's low-key okay with me knowing? Sure, he would tell me - Dick - at some point anyway, but not until he could trust me enough with the information, and do so on his own terms.

On the other hand, he's Batman, and I can't think of another hero that's any more strict on keeping his true identity a secret. Heck, I'm not even sure if the Justice League knows who he is. I'm pretty sure he tells them at some point, but that takes some time. In the Justice League cartoon, the only reason he reveals his identity is because of some alien invasion and it's a life-or-death kind of situation.

Which begs the question, how long has Batman been a part of the League? Or better yet, has the Justice League even formed yet in this universe? Oh, I want to meet Wonder Woman so badly!

Ah, so many questions. So little time.

But the biggest one is, do I really even care about any of this?

Bruce shifts in his chair, shoulders broad and back stiff as a board as he waits for my response, bringing my attention back to this issue at hand.

Right. Me being a dunce and revealing that I know he's Batman.

And then telling him I'm a psychic. Of all the things I could have said...

That, folks, was pure idiocy right there, is what that was.

Well, I said what I said; no turning back the clock on that goof-up. Guess I'll just run with it for now.

Besides, it's not like this dream will last much longer. I don't actually need to worry about any long-term consequences. This isn't the actual comics or cartoons where I have to consider every action I make and how it'll affect the timeline seven years from now.

So I raise an eyebrow and lean over the bed I'm sitting cross-legged on and whisper, "Well,  _aren't_  you?"

Bruce watches me closely and I get the feeling that he's silently picking me apart in his mind – trying to figure me out. He's probably wondering who the hell I am and what kind of circus was I really a part of?

Well, I'd say things have made a turn toward the interesting. I don't know if this will speed the story along or not, but I've definitely already diverted from the canon storyline.

Before he can say anything else, the doorknob wiggles. I hear a huff of confusion come from the hallway, followed by a series of rapid knocking. "Mr. Grayson? Is everything all right?" a concerned voice calls from the other side.

I look at Bruce. I don't know,  _is_  everything all right? At this point, Bruce is a total wild card and I have no idea how he'll react.

The richest man in Gotham gives me one more silent lookover before rising from the chair and making his way to the door. He undoes the lock and opens it to reveal a smiling nurse on the other side.

"Oh, hello!" she chirps, surprised to see  _the_  Bruce Wayne in front of her. "I, uh, I was just coming in to change Mr. Grayson's dressings."

Bruce smiles and says smoothly, "Of course. I'll get out of your way. Richard and I were just talking. I must have accidentally locked the door when I came in."

Dang, he's good. Maybe he can teach me to lie like that, too.

"Not to worry," giggles the nurse, clearly smitten with the man.

Oh, brother. Give me a break! Here I had always thought that the comics always exaggerated how good looking people found Bruce Wayne to be, but I guess here in comic book land, it's true.

But…Because this isn't  _really_ a comic and just my dream, and the nurse is most likely a projection of my own subconscious…

Does that mean  _I'm_  the one who actually finds Bruce Wayne to be attractive?

Wow. Uh, okay, that's a lot to unpack right there. Time to compartmentalize and comb through that little inner dilemma later on. And re-evaluate a bunch of things in my life.

Bruce turns to me and gives a small nod of his head. "Richard, it was good to meet you. I'm  _sure_  we'll be meeting again soon."

Of course, I'll be seeing him again. He's not going to let me out of his sight now. Sure, I know that it's basically inevitable now that I end up going to live with him – that's just a constant in Dick Grayson's life – yet I can't help but feel that the way he said it… It almost sounded  _threatening_.

Boy, I messed up letting him know that I know who he really is. I'm going to have to watch my mouth more. Gotta be smart if I'm going to make it through this convoluted story.

Way to complicate things, Me. Way. To. Go

Again, though, this is all a dream. My actions don't really matter, as the consequences aren't real. I'm just playing along in hopes that I can wake up sooner. I mean, what's the worse that can happen if he finds out I'm not psychic? Get mad at me for lying?

Guess I can ponder all the theoreticals while I wait to wake up.

After Bruce leaves, the nurse changes my head bandages. The wound still stings and she tells me there are quite a few stitches that will need to come out in several weeks time. What fun.

Then, she too leaves after instructing me to lay in bed properly and rest, because some people will be coming around soon to talk to me some more.

Great, more talking - the best part in any dream...

I'm left alone for probably ten or so minutes. Which begs the question of how time works in this reality? Dreams don't follow the same rules of time and space as the real world, so I wonder how much time is actually passing in real life? How long have I been asleep?

I try to think about it, but then get a headache. It's all too meta.

Is that even the right word?

Oh, I don't care.

It's right about then that Detective Gordon makes his second appearance. He's wearing the same clothes I saw him in the night we met and I worry that he hasn't been home to change - though Bruce did say that I had been unconscious for the past few days, so I doubt that's the case. He approaches my bed and sits in the same chair Bruce had occupied not long ago.

I can't say I know too much about Jim Gordon, but I respect him as a character. He's one of the few true, dedicated police officers in Gotham. Never falls to corruption and is one of Batman's closest confidants. So, I should trust him, too.

Gordon lets out an awkward scoffing sound, as if he's unsure how to start this conversation. I wearily wait for him to find his words; I want to get this interaction over with. More importantly, I just want to get out of this damn hospital! I'm really hoping that he's here to tell me that Bruce Wayne wants to adopt me or whatever so I can move on from this boring nonsense.

He coughs again and begins. "I know there's a lot going on right now, and you probably have a lot of concerns and questions."

"Not really."

He blinks in surprise. "Y-you don't?"

" _Hmm_ ," I hum as if in thought and tap a finger to my chin. "No, nothing comes to mind. Should I?"

"You're not concerned about what will happen now that…" he trails off, not wanting to bring up the elephant in the room.

"Now that I'm an orphan, you mean?"

Oof. I'm sounding way too blunt here. Gotta pretend I'm more vulnerable.

The detective's brown eyes waver, almost with shock. "Yes. That."

I mindlessly tug at an end of the new bandage wrapped around my skull; it's itchy and uncomfortable. "Won't social services just take over? Dump me in some foster home? I'm sure they'll check in on me every so often for the first few months until my name gets lost in all the paperwork, just like the hundreds of other orphaned kids in this city."

Aw. I actually don't hope there are hundreds of orphans in Gotham. That'd just be downright sad. Why did the writers have to make this city so gosh darn depressing?

Gordon scratches his cheek and comments, "That's an astute observation."

I shrug nonchalantly. "I'm pragmatic."

"You're in shock," he quips back, arms crossing over his chest. I think he's starting to get fed up with my attitude.

I roll my eyes. No, Jim Gordon, I assure you I'm not. Maybe Dick Grayson was in the comics, but not me. "Because I'm not sobbing my eyes out? Or swearing to find the guy who did it and kill them?" I ask.

He's beginning to appear uncomfortable in this situation, I can tell by the way he nervously crosses his legs. This wasn't how he'd thought a little circus boy would be reacting. "It would be understandable if you did," he tells me softly, as if trying to encourage those kinds reactions.

Sorry, pal, it's not going to happen. I'm just having some fun impersonating a character - though arguably, I'm not filling the role all that well.

"Is that what you want me to do?" My head cocks to the side, almost sardonically.

Gordon doesn't have a response to that. I might be playing it a little too aloof right now. Finally, he says, "Listen. I think there's a lot of things I don't have the answers to right now, and a lot of things you're going through hat I can't comprehend. That's okay. I don't need you to explain yourself or the way you deal with grief." I think if I'm remembering correctly, Gordon has some serious past family problems of his own. Like his wife died? Or went insane? Point is, he's been through the wringer himself. "We all have our ways."

I feel a little bad now because Gordon is just trying his best to be supportive and I'm being cold in return. He doesn't deserve that.

But, I also want to get out of this hospital, and if being a little mean to a fictional cop is what it takes, well... I think my moral conscious can deal with that.

"Can we just get to the point of this visit, Detective? I'm a bit tired, and honestly, would like to just shake off whatever is going on right now. So if it's social services that you've called, let's get at it. No need to beat around the bush."

He sighs. "It's in regards to your future living arrangments."

I look at him blankly. "You mean foster care?"

"Another option for you has been suggested."

"I get to go back to the circus?" I ask, my tone near sarcastic. Of course they would never let me back there. Though, that would be interesting if they did; then I get to spend the rest of this time with clowns and firebreathers and acrobats, traveling the world. Who says I have to follow the canon and become Robin?

Dreams are very fluid, after all. Maybe this will shift into a  _Water For Elephants_  type of fantasy.

The more I think about it, the less bad that option begins to sound. Could actually be kind of coll, even.

Hold up, do I actually want to go back to the circus now? Trek a new path for Dick Grayson? Venture into the unknown? Say sayonara to Batman and Gotham?

"No. I'm afraid not," Gordon says glumly, shattering those ideas instantly. Yeah, I should have known that I wouldn't get an interesting option like that - I mean, I'm terrible when it comes to controlling lucid dreams, so believing I could change this was a bit of a stretch.

Gordon continues. "After the accident, social services won't allow you to rejoin Haly's. They've deemed it an unfit environment for a child."

Well, they're not wrong. But Dick Grayson wouldn't give up his family and the only life he's ever known so easily. Hell, maybe if I really try and I can still end up with the circus. Like a choose-your-own-adventure. I just need to say the right things to unlock that path.

I muster up a quavering voice and wilt my body into the bed, doing my best to look crushed by the news. "Even though all those people are the closest thing to a real family I have? That the circus is the only thing I've known my whole life? You're telling me that social services would rather transplant me into an alien environment that I'm completely unfamiliar with, where I'll have to learn brand new social standards and expectations. They truly believe I'll do better then than with the lifestyle I'm comfortable with?"

That was a bit wordy for a pre-teen. I need to dumb things down a bit.

"Certainly seems like you're clever enough that you'll adapt," Gordon responds, trying to keep the mood optimistic.

"I've heard that being a smart kid only means I'll get into more trouble," I grin shrewdly.

Yeah. I should probably tone back on the wise-cracking, deadpan humor, too. I'm supposed to be a kid, and even though Dick's a super smart guy later on, I kind of doubt he's been exposed to a well-rounded education or extensive vocabulary while growing up in a traveling circus.

Gordon clearly can't figure me out. To his defense, I am a bit all over the place, right now. "That maybe be true..." he murmurs.

All right. Gotta' keep this moving forward.

"What's the proposition?" I ask, feigning intrigue, as if I already didn't know.

Gordon sits up straight, remembering why he'd come in to talk to me in the first place. "Right. Bruce Wayne, who I believe you've briefly met earlier, has offered to take you in temporarily until a more permanent solution can be agreed upon."

"Yeah, didn't think I'd be getting out of that one so easily…" I mutter beneath my breath.

Okay. I'm stuck with Bruce. Fine. I can live with that - well, dream with that.

"Excuse me?" Gordon looks confused. I really need to pay attention to what I'm saying.

I bat my hand apologetically. "Nothing, sorry."

It seems like Gordon is still trying to figure me out, the same way Bruce was earlier, with his eyes trained intently on my person. He's a detective, too, after all; understanding people is his job. "Bruce Wayne is a very wealthy man who has access to a variety of resources that can help you during this time of transition."

"So you think just because he's rich and powerful that it's smart to leave a seven-year-old orphan boy in his care?"

Okay, I had to ask. It's one of the things that I've never understood in the comics or cartoons. Why does everyone just let this orphaned kid go live with Gotham's millionaire playboy without any delay? Where's the all the boring bureaucracy? The piles of paperwork that has to be filled out? The legality of it all?

Surely it can't be that easy to just take in a kid.

Then again, Gotham is Gotham, and I don't think the city is known for following all regulations and laws perfectly. Hell, social services probably are glad they have less paperwork to file and one less kid in the system to deal with.

"Mr. Wayne has actually been through quite the deal of tragedy in his life and is familiar with what it's like to lose family. He, too, lost his parents when he was just a boy. I think he might be the only one who's familiar with the situation you're in right now." Gordon suddenly pauses, caught in thought. He pulls out the notebook I saw him use back at the circus and flips through a few pages. "Wait, did you say you're  _seven_? The file we have on you says you're ten years old, born in 1996."

"Ah, is that how old I am?" Damn, Dick Grayson is short for a ten-year-old.

Gordon raises a brow. "You don't know how old you are?"

All right. That's probably a bit too weird; all kids know how old they are, sometimes down to the quarter. It's like weird little proud achievements they brag about. What can I say to make it sound like I'm not insane?

"I grew up in the circus, Detective. Things like ages and dates aren't as important there. Never really celebrated birthdays."

I can tell that Gordon doesn't fully believe it, but who is he to question the accuracy of circus life? I could tell him we go by a completely different calendar year and he'd just have to take my word for it.

Then there's a change in his demeanor and it's like the entire room drops a few degrees. "There's something else you need to know," he tells me, his voice sinking even lower now.

Oh? Another piece to the puzzle? Do tell, Mr. Future-Commissioner. Though, from his posture - slumped shoulders, slack jaw, and twiddling thumbs - I already know it's not good.

Just how much more f'ed up can this kid's life get?

No. Stupid question, Me. He's a superhero comic book character. The answer is very much more f'ed up.

"Your uncle, Rick," Gordon breathes out with an expression of devastation, "he's still alive."

That's right! 'Uncle' Rick must have been the one I had heard groaning that night!

I stop and frown, realizing what that means.

A man who fell nearly fifty feet onto a rock solid ground is alive. There's no way in hell that he's getting out of that with only minor injuries. "Can I see him?" I ask, the words coming out of my mouth automatically.

Where did that come from? Why do I want to see him? I don't even know the guy.

Gordon frowns and shakes his head. "Unfortunately, he's still in an unstable condition and in the ICU. The doctors are doing their best to make him comfortable."

Uh-oh. That doesn't sound good. Anytime doctors have to make someone "comfortable," it usually doesn't end well for the patient. "Is he going to live?" I question softly.

I didn't realize Dick Grayson had any living relatives. Wasn't that supposed to contribute to his tragic backstory? A young boy suddenly finds himself all alone in the world, and then is taken under the wing of the wealthy philanthropist who privately fights crime wearing an overpriced, military-grade Halloween costume.

Maybe I'm in a continuity that's different from the central comics. Then again, all this just being in my head, I might be fudging a bit of the details here and there, and not following the script to a T.

"It looks that way," Gordon says with a small smile of reassurance. I don't think he wants to scare me, but he also doesn't want to lie. That's not in his nature. "But..."

Ah, yes. There's always a 'but.' Why do comics always have to make things so dramatic? Might as well be a soap opera.

"The doctors are fairly confident that your uncle will be permanently paralyzed for the rest of his life. He'll be unable to live without constant support and aid."

Bummer.

Oh, try and be more empathetic, Me! Fiction or not, a man's life is ruined! I really should have more compassion.

Okay, what would a ten-year-old say in this situation? I do my best to look disheartened and turn my head to the floor. I would try to cry even, but tearing up on command is not easy. "So I can't live with him when all this gets sorted out?"

"No," Gordon says apologetically. "I'm afraid not."

Wow, did things get gloomy in here  _REAL_  fast! I don't like that. Time for a change of scenery.

I look up to Gordon, pretending to wipe a tear away from my eye, and mumble out, "Hence Mr. Wayne stepping in." Bring the conversation back to Bruce. If I'm destined to end up in his care by the end of this dream, then I'm going to do everything in my power to get there as soon as possible!

"You really are sharp," Gordon tells me, sounding mildly impressed. "I have a daughter about your age. She's bright like you, too; maybe one day you could meet her."

All right, Barbara Gordon exists in this continuity (or is it timeline? Universe? Reiteration?) God, this shouldn't be so damn confusing!

Gordon stands with a grunt, his back cracking. It wouldn't be too far of a stretch to assume that the good detective doesn't take the best care of his body. He looks down at me and says, "I'll let you rest up. Jack is here, but I can tell him you're not up for more visitors right now."

I'm guessing Jack is Mr. Haly. For a moment, I think he should – after all, Mr. Haly is practically the next closest thing to family Dick has right now; but, if I'm being honest, I don't feel like dealing with another heartfelt pity-fest. Especially from some minor side character I likely won't ever see again.

"Actually, maybe not right now. I'm feeling tired," I tell him and stifle back a yawn.

"Of course," Gordon replies with a nod. He makes a swift exit and I am once again left alone.

* * *

After what feels like an eternity, but really most likely was only a few hours (and only seconds in Real World Time) I see a few more doctors while in the room. They perform final examinations, ask me some questions, and basically make sure that I won't die the second I'm discharged from their care. I also meet with two social service agents – neither of which seem to enjoy their jobs – and they explain what will happen to me.

It's been decided that I'm going to go live with Bruce Wayne (big shocker), who out of the kindness of his heart, has offered to take me in instead of forcing me into the system where I'd most likely end up in some terrible foster home and then eventually out on the streets of Gotham. I will stay with Mr. Wayne until the state can come up with an adequate permanent solution or I simply age out of the system. Because I am a minor, with no living relatives who are well enough to care for me, I'm essentially the property of the state. All autonomy is gone.

As they talk to me in their dull voices, I can only sigh and wonder why my dreams have to be so incredibly boring. Again, if get to imagine myself as a superhero, why not place myself into the fun and interesting points of said superhero's life? Where's Two-Face and Poison Ivy? Let me take down the Joker!

Well, maybe not him.

Real or not, that monster is terrifying.

The agents continue to rattle on and I roll my eyes. I guess my brain is too uncreative to do the fun things, so now I'm stuck living through this.

How exciting… (note the sarcasm.)

At last, after one final check-over, I am officially deemed healthy enough to be released from the hospital. Thank god. I was afraid I'd go crazy if I were stuck there any longer!

I'm given a fresh set of clothes that I can only guess Mr. Haly dropped off, and an apple for the road. A nurse instructs me to take it easy for a bit and that I can take off my head bandages in a few days. She then directs me to the lobby and says that there's someone there for me.

When I enter the waiting area, I spot him immediately.

Bruce Wayne.

_Batman_.

He wasn't kidding about seeing each other again soon.

All right, Me. This is where the story really begins.

He's waiting for me in the lobby, eyes fixated on the floor. I'm not sure why, but I'm still having difficulty believing that this is Batman – the Dark Knight, protector of Gotham city. He just doesn't look like much, right now. Dare I even say it, but I'm not too impressed.

I walk forward and Bruce looks up. There are the beginnings of dark circles beneath his eyes, as though he hasn't slept for the past few days.

Not since the accident.

Seeing him hunched over in the waiting room chair like that, I don't see Batman before me. No, instead what I see is a tired man who feels like he's failed.

And, well, maybe he has.

He's supposed to be one of the greatest heroes in all of comics, right?. The world's best detective! He can outsmart anyone and is always five steps ahead of everyone else. So, why couldn't he figure out that the local mafia/mob/gang/whatever in his city was trying to extort the poor innocent circus that had come into town? How did he not realize that they would resort to using such extreme measures? That Tony Zucco would stay true to his word about hurting Haly.

People are dead now. A kid has been orphaned. One man paralyzed for life.

All right, all right, pump the brakes.

I think I'm looking way too deep into all of this.

I'm sure that when the original writers for Batman came up with this stuff in like the 50s or whenever, they were more focused on the entertainment/drama value of it all. Not so much the deep critical psychoanalysis on how successful Batman is as a hero after not preventing the death of the Flying Graysons.

The writers needed to give him a sidekick. They needed an orphan for the part - made things easier storytelling-wise. Bing Bang Boom. Robin is born from tragedy.

Drop this weird resentment and move on, Me.

I shake my head slightly. I really need to get over myself.

Bruce stands as I approach. Neither of us says anything, only looking at one another. I don't think he really knows what exactly he's just signed himself up for. Does he even know the first thing about parenting?

Well, I guess that's where Alfred will come in.

He clears his throat. "It's good to see you again, Richard."

"Call me Dick," I tell him automatically.

Wait, do I want that to be my name? It's so retro and outdated. I could just be Rich or Ric, instead.

But no, I think. The name Dick is such a part of who the character is. Guess I'll just have to put up with the constant teasing and jeering from teammates later on.

Bruce nods in understanding. "Of, course Dick." He gestures down the hall toward the exit. "Are you ready to go? Do you have all your belongings?"

I hold up the apple the nurse gave me. I doubt that the Graysons possessed that many personal belongings while in the circus. It would just be dead weight that need to be packed and moved every time they went to a new city.

We start to walk out.

"So," I eventually drawl out, holding my hands behind my back, and breaking the awkward silence. I even incorporate a little skip into my step, just so it really cements that reality that I'm a child. "Bruce Wayne, are you taking me in because you genuinely care for my well-being and want to make a difference in a young boy's life, or is it all because I know who you secretly are and want to keep a close eye on me?"

His head swivels a bit, checking to see if anyone is in ear-shot.

"Both." His reply is curt, even gruff sounding. He's not going to hide behind a façade. I know the truth, so has no reason to lie.

"That's fair," I nod. "And I respect the honesty."

As we walk toward the exit, he then asks, "What else do you know?"

I smirk. I've been waiting for this. "A bunch of things. The sky is blue, the sun is made out of hot gas and will one day explode, the Earth is round… Shall I continue?"

Maybe I shouldn't be such a little troll, but it's oddly satisfying. And I believe whole-heartedly that Dick Grayson was just as much of a jokester when he was a kid; he's always been portrayed to be the most laid-back and humorous of all the Robins. Might as well try and keep some character aspects true.

We step through the sliding glass doors and into the outside world. I hold up my hands to shield my eyes from the harsh light. As I blink, I notice a sleek black car parked at the curb; it fancy, but it's no batmobile. We make our way toward it.

Bruce grunts, "What I mean is, what else do you know about  _me_?"

Oh, the dilemma. Should I reveal that I know more information or play it dumb? If I tell him I know more, that might lead to animosity and questioning; it'll create a hostile environment where I'm seen as a potential enemy and end up more like a prisoner than a ward.

On the other hand, if I say that I only know he's Batman, then he might question my "psychic" abilities and whether I'm telling the truth. Who's to say that someone else didn't tell me that information and I'm secretly working for them as a spy? Infiltrating Batman's sanctuary from the inside. Again, that could lead to hostility and overall, a bad prognosis for me.

Oh, well. I'm not going to think too much about this and actually have some fun.

I stop at the sidewalk when we reach the car. I crane my neck to look up at him. Dang, it's like he's a whole two feet taller than I am, and I'm reminded just how small this body I'm occupying is. I'm really hoping that Dick hits a growth spurt soon, because I am not a fan of being short.

"Alright, then. Tell me about the Justice League?" I ask innocently enough – but there's a slight jeering undertone in my query. This might be a bad idea, sure, but I'm also a bit curious to see how far I can get under the Batman's skin. "You're on it, right?"

He doesn't give any sort of response.

"Well, why, may I ask, do you always carry around kryptonite when your teammate is Kryptonian? Clark's a good person. To me, it seems like you have some serious trust issues that need resolving."

And as Bruce opens the door and I step inside, I notice the look that crosses his face. From it, I get the slightest hunch that if I keep this up, I may end up being the shortest-lived Robin in any continuity.

**Author's Note:**

> ■ A/N: The writing is supposed to seem kind of choppy here. I want to exude the feeling of being inside someone's head. This about experiencing a new life in real-time, so it's very thought focused. Maybe a bit raw, even. So don't go looking for eloquent prose and frilly descriptions here. Also, it's my first time writing in the first person, and I'm not accustomed to writing in the present tense, so forgive me for any grammatical errors. I'll try and get better.
> 
> I'd be interested to hear your thoughts if you had any while reading this. Thanks!


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